Shaken
by MuddyWolf
Summary: Bradley learns a hard lesson. 2003 anime.


Amidst the fire and blood, sweat and terrible screaming, the dutiful boy emerged from the tunnel-like hallway, brightened by the flames that growled and crackled in the wine storage room. The moment he set foot into the room, his eyes hurt from the sudden, glaring orange light that was but a faint shadow in the tunnel, and now assaulted his stinging eyes with full force. The smoke was oppressive and he stifled back a cough—it wasn't polite, and father would not like the noise.

He must not have liked the noise of the fire, either, because he was hurting someone on the wall.

"Father…!"

He wasn't angry after all. He stopped hurting whoever was on the wall. But father called him a 'rat' just now, so that someone probably deserved to be hurt. Yes, that was it, it had to be.

The more the child felt he had to look his best for father, who was doing his best to keep he and Mother safe. So he ignored his watering eyes, his small human lungs swelling with smoke, held back all coughs and wheezes, and smiled for father, who was smiling too as he walked over to him.

The only thing that he couldn't do was get the smoke off of the cloth around father's treasure, but he wouldn't mind, right?

Father's hands rested softly on his shoulders, filling him with heat, but the good kind, not the bad kind from the fire. That father's treasure wouldn't get hurt in, because he had taken it out from the safe and was here. Maybe it was something he could use to get rid of the bad person.

But then father got hurt…why'd he call him an idiot..?

_Father..that hurts..you always praised me for being a devoted son.._

_Is it the smoke? I can clean it off, I'm sorry that I got your treasure dirty.._

But father didn't seem too angry..at least not until his neck was being squeezed hard by hands, _father's_ hands. Father's hands were hurting him..he managed to choke out a plea, for him to stop..why..it was the dirty cloth, right? _I'm sorry…_ _I'm sorry.._

The last thing he saw was father's angry face, when the bones in his neck snapped with a wet crack. The boy was not alive to feel his body slam against the wall, bright red spilling an irregular pattern out of the skull that crushed inward as it hit the wood.

Mustang gripped the cross guard and pulled again—appalling….he had just seen a child die before his eyes, and the only damn thing he could do was flail and strain—each time he yanked on the sword that was pinning his shoulder, he could only pull it out inch by excruciating inch, the blade grinding against the bone that Bradley had jammed it into….right into his joint too to make it impossible for him to move that arm-why, was it at the worst times that he was so _useless_?

Beads of sweat clung to Pride's face, a good deal more haggard now that he had come in contact with the remains of the human that he had been transmuted from. His shoulders heaved, breathing hard, like he was the one that was hurt, when the two humans, one dead, the other slashed-up and pinned on the wall, were in far worse pain than he.

The treasure lay on the ground, on its side, grinning at Pride from under the sooty cloth. Next to the dead boy with his neck crushed and his head caved in and his limbs broken, his messenger bag laying open and flecked with blood.

"Now, you won't be disobeying me again, will you, Selim?" Bradley admonished his son in a low, dark snarl, heavily trudging over the smoldering debris two steps towards where the child lay, not venturing too close to his remains. He had regained some of his composure, managing to stand up straight though the bones had sapped his strength. "What's the hold up, son?" Pride addressed the foolish human—the last one he'd expect to be so careless-with anger and impatience. "Get on your feet." No movement. "Selim?" Pride snapped. "I won't ask again.

"What's..the..matter..with you?" the Colonel's voice groaned out hoarse and staggered at the Homunculus's back. Edged with condemnation..and utter disbelief. "You…killed him.."

"Quiet," Pride growled at his would-be assassin at hearing such nonsense. "Though he's only a human, I raised him. He should be able to take a little shaking. Selim, get up."

_So that's why. Now I get it. He doesn't even know that his son is dead._

Mustang's eyes widened in sickened realization.

_This monster would be allowed to be that child's father?_

The sight of the dead boy, the smell of his brutally-shed blood shot him hot with adrenaline, and dragging up every ounce of his strength. He tore the blade out from his shoulder, and it fell to the scorched floor with a clatter. He would avenge Selim Bradley..he would atone for Hughes's murder, he would unwrap the remains and burn the bastard to ash…not to become Fuhrer, not for petty vengeance, but because it was _right_..And just once he had to do what was right..

But his humanity caught up with him, and the would-be hero collapsed to the floor in his blood, his chest smacking the floor hard and sending a jolt of pain through his wounded body. The shadow of the Homunculus smothered him as he struggled, fought against creeping unconsciousness to stagger up—no, he couldn't even do that, twitching, weak on the blood-smeared floor.

"Selim!"

And all the while, that sham of a father kept trying to wake up his son.

Pride was really getting upset again now. Selim was being indolent. It wasn't like him at all. So he nudged him a little with his boot. How inconsiderate of the boy to make him wake him up when the skull was so close..how inconsiderate and stupid of the boy to bring the skull at all.

Mustang grit his teeth hard, helpless to stop the sickening crunch of bones as the Fuhrer smashed his son's ribs. And he..weakly chuckled, at the absurdity of it all, of his weakness, and the loss of blood was removing his guard, eating at all propriety.

"I'm telling you..he already's dead..you're just disfiguring a corpse…disgusting."

Pride scowled. He wasn't disgusting. What did that human know? He had half a mind to teach him a lesson but he wanted to wake up Selim. The little head shook terribly at each nudge of his boot, a thwack sounding muffled under the fire each time he pushed him awake.

He simply couldn't understand it..

Not until he abandoned his stubbornness and accepted the images flashing in his left eye, the one that saw what humans couldn't, underneath the skin, into the very core of Selim..

He saw for himself that the heart was still.

_Impossible. How can he die so easily?_ he thought to himself, looking into Selim's eyes wide from shock, terror, sorrow, confusion..

_My son…_

_I raised you to be better than this._

No..Pride couldn't accept this. He bent down, shoulders slumped, tufts of hair hanging in disarray over his creased, tan head—it was hard to tell if it was because of his remains-induced weakness or if something in him…was out of joint..but bending this way, he picked up the broken child—undelicately, looking at the body, tossing it from one wrinkled hand to the other like a stuffed doll whose head lolled limply over his thick fingers, suited for killing and maiming. Not to hold a child.

Humans..broke so easily…

His eye remained frozen, angry. Nothing would melt this steel into a tear.

His head lowered and he faced his eyes to the floor as he held the bloody child in his hand, hanging downward like an overgrown child holding a teddy that he had ripped the stuffing out of and wondered why it didn't look like itself anymore—of course, it could have been from Pride's body reacting to the skull. His body was fake after all. And he had destroyed the only thing he ever had that was real.

"Colonel Mustang, stay right where you are!" the clack of pistols arming sounded sharp amidst the dulling flames as Archer's lieutenant's men aimed the barrels at the bloodied insurgent, now half-standing, propped up against one of the counters in the smoke-choked cellar.

The Colonel pierced the soldiers, no doubt here to 'rescue' the Fuhrer, with a hard, weary look in his narrow black eyes.

"Spare me," he muttered under his hoarse breath, eyes hard and his tone full of solemn contempt. "He murdered his own son."

The officer's face washed over with shock. He saw the Fuhrer there, with his hands covered in blood—Selim Bradley hanging limply from his fist—the insurgent was bloodied but had no blood on his hands. The unfortunate, alarming facts spoke for themselves. The Fuhrer was also dressed in very strange clothes with red marks..but that was besides the point. He eyed down at Mustang and shook his head. "This doesn't erase your involvement in this coup. I'm taking you both in."

Pride was silent, staring, staring into the floor with a blank, dull look in his eyes. Nor did he offer any resistance when his subordinates, faces washed over with disbelief and horror, pried the dead boy out of his hands and locked them into wooden manacles. They restrained Mustang as well, yanking him up off the counter he was leaning against and forcing him to walk out of the cellar.

The wrapped-up skull was left there, as they threw a sheet over the child's body. Mustang was too weak to say anything else, to warn them, that they had to get the skull, that Bradley would overpower them –this far away from the remains there was no doubt he'd crack open the restrains as effortlessly as he had cracked open Selim's head.

But as he and the Homunculus were herded through the tunnel, Bradley hadn't attacked, condescending to be submitted to human justice.

It wasn't satisfying. It was no victory. ….the very thought of Bradley being court-martialed and going to prison turned his stomach. He didn't care that Bradley was a Homunculus, but he couldn't forgive him for what he had done to Hughes, or to his own son.

_"Father, why did the clock stop working?"_

_"Because it's broken, Selim._"

_"Can we get it fixed?"_

_No. There's no fixing it._

Amidst the tromp of boots through the unlit hallway as they approached the stairs, a drop of moisture hit the floor.


End file.
